


Enough to Go By

by estelraca



Series: Physicality Reincarnation Universe [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Birthday, Communication, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has finally convinced Grantaire to be in a relationship, but then seems hesitant to move forward.  Eventually Grantaire works up the courage to ask Enjolras out on a date, but nothing goes quite as intended.  Sequel to "The Merits of Persistence".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough to Go By

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Besanii as an extremely belated Solstice fic. The request was for Enjolras, Grantaire, sexual tension, and they weren't averse to the idea of a sequel to "Merits". The title is taken from the Vienna Teng song of the same name.

_Enough to Go By_

Grantaire kisses him, finally, and it is everything that Enjolras has wanted.

It isn't like the too-bright memory fragment that Enjolras has born in his heart since he was six years old. There isn't smoke and dirt in the air, the taste of blood in his mouth, his ears ringing from a dozen different types of explosions. There isn't death at the door, and they haven't just lost everyone they love to yet another oppressive government.

They are still alive.

They are all still alive, and Grantaire's hands are in his hair, and Enjolras presses forward without meaning to, pinning Grantaire to the wall.

Eventually Grantaire turns his head, just a bit, his breath rasping in his throat. Enjolras forces himself to pause, his arms tight around Grantaire, their foreheads resting together. Grantaire is giving him what he wants; there is no need to push for more, nothing to be gained and everything to be lost from frightening Grantaire again.

Grantaire shivers, a convulsive wrenching of his body in Enjolras' arms.

Enjolras pulls back just slightly, biting the inside of his lip almost hard enough to draw blood. Stupid. Too much too fast too soon, and he's going to drive Grantaire away when everything's starting to finally slide into place. He keeps his voice gentle, though nothing short of a riot breaking out in front of them could make his arms loosen their hold on Granaire right now. "Grantaire?"

"I don't want to break this." Grantaire's voice cracks, and he blinks fiercely, his eyes bright with a sheen of tears that Enjolras wants to kiss away. "I don't want to break _us_."

"You won't." Enjolras pauses, allowing himself to lean forward and plant a gentle kiss between Grantaire's eyes as he tries to find words for what he feels instinctively. "We're going to be glorious, Grantaire. We're going to fly together, you and me, life to life, and it's going to be wonderful."

He believes it, from the bottom of his heart and soul. They're spent the last two centuries side by side, fighting together, dying together, hand in hand and heart by heart. It has honed both of them, turning Grantaire from a wandering cynic who could provide no solid arguments for Enjolras to balk against to a sharp skeptic who can find the flaws in their theses and plans and help them fix them.

He has become everything that Enjolras wanted him to be, everything that Enjolras saw shining so brightly next to him when they died the first time.

And he is returning Enjolras' affection.

Or _was_ returning Enjolras' affection, for a few glorious seconds. Now he closes his eyes, resting in Enjolras' arms, the occasional shiver running through his body. His face is slack, his expression impossible to read, and Enjolras hugs him tightly again.

Grantaire doesn't fight him.

Grantaire doesn't return the embrace, either, staying still and quiescent in his arms.

Too fast. He's pushing things too fast, despite trying so hard to be patient, and he's going to hurt Grantaire if he isn't careful.

Puling back is one of the hardest things he has ever done, but he does it, placing one more feather-soft kiss on the tip of Grantaire's nose as he does. Grantaire had said that he needs to focus on his work, and that is true, still—will always be true, now perhaps more than ever. He has lived and died for his belief in humanity eight times now, and he will continue to do so for as long as it's needed. He has every faith that the others will stay with him, too, will die by his side over and over again as they have before, and he must ensure that their sacrifice will be worthwhile.

Before that, though, he wants—desperately—to have Grantaire _live_ at his side.

_He_ wants to live, to etch into his memory for next time things that don't involve blood and death and the loss, at six, of an innocence that was never meant for him.

He will not force what Grantaire clearly isn't ready for, though, even if every bone in his body cries that each beat of his heart brings them one step closer to death's dark door again.

"Come." He pulls back, though it hurts, an almost physical pain in his chest, until only his right hand is touching Grantaire. It isn't enough, not nearly enough, not with the thin black leather glove he wears separating their skin, but it will have to do for now. "We've got a lot more work to do before the sun sets, yes?"

"Yeah." Grantaire nods, the movement slightly jerky. The smile on his face is radiant, though, and his hand tightens in Enjolras', so he isn't too badly frightened, at least. "Yeah, we should go."

Enjolras doesn't let go of Grantaire's hand for the rest of the afternoon. Grantaire doesn't seem inclined to release him either, though, and they manage to finish their work at around the same time the others do, so overall Enjolras considers the day a success.

Enjolras decides, settling down by Grantaire as the group convenes, that he will hold to that success and force himself to wait, however impatiently, for Grantaire to be fully ready for a relationship.

***

Enjolras pushed for them to be in a relationship, but as soon as Grantaire agrees, Enjolras seems content with them simply being near one another.

It's nice. Grantaire is never going to deny that it's nice to have Enjolras close to him, especially now that he has confirmation from Enjolras' own mouth that his new wardrobe and fascination with Grantaire are things that he willingly, inexplicably chose.

But is that all that Enjolras has been wanting? To hold his hand at meetings? To sit together in the café? To walk side by side?

They've done that before. Enjolras has done those things with all the Amis, Grantaire is fairly certain.

Is Enjolras waiting for Grantaire to make a move?

Or is Enjolras afraid of what comes next?

Grantaire doesn't want to push Enjolras. Enjolras has never been one to be involved in romantic relationships. What if Grantaire goes too fast, moves things along too quickly, and Enjolras panics?

He thinks, once or twice, that Enjolras is going to kiss him. The first time they are standing outside the café, the last of the Amis to leave for the night. Enjolras' hand has found its way into his, somehow, and Grantaire clings tightly to it, as he always does. They pause, just briefly, at the entrance, and the world seems to pause with them, an almost-full moon hanging bright and beautiful in a dark-purple sky. Enjolras leans forward, toward Grantaire, the space between them decreasing centimeter by achingly slow centimeter, and Grantaire knows that they are finally, finally, _finally_ going to kiss again.

Grantaire catches his breath, waiting for the heady rush of Enjolras' lips against his, debating whether he should dare to reach up and touch the silky-soft golden locks again or simply hope that they will brush against his cheek by accident.

And just like that Enjolras stops, a frozen statue for one, two, three seconds before he offers one of the saddest smiles that Grantaire has ever seen, disengages their hands, and wishes Grantaire a good night.

The second time is similar. Enjolras walks Grantaire home after a long day spent attempting to encourage both voter education and voter turn-out. They both wear jackets against the cool fall air, but neither of them has on gloves, and Grantaire's hand is once more in Enjolras'. Enjolras had been discussing the current political candidates—the exact topic Grantaire forgets as soon as Enjolras stops talking, though he had been paying attention, rapt to the sound of Enjolras' voice rising and falling in homage to the themes he always spills his own and others' blood for. They pause outside Grantaire's door, Enjolras leans towards him, Grantaire's breath freezes in his throat in anticipation… and Enjolras smiles, a tiny expression holding so much disappointment, squeezes Grantaire's hand, and leaves.

Why?

Is he already disappointed in Grantaire?

Then why stay by Grantaire's side? Why hold his hand? Why continue to drape himself across Grantaire at every opportunity, to hug him, to touch him, to waste time talking with him?

Why continue to dress so damn _beautifully_ and _provocatively_ , clothes that Grantaire is starting to love as it slowly sinks into him that they are Enjolras' _choice_ , if Enjolras doesn't want… well… something?

He waits three more days, but nothing changes. Enjolras stays near him. Enjolras touches him, a possessive hand around his shoulders while they eat, an arm around his waist even when they walk home. But Enjolras doesn't lean in, doesn't almost-kiss him, doesn't come to Grantaire's room or—impossible dream—invite Grantaire to Enjolras' room.

Eventually frustration overwhelms confusion, and Grantaire spills his feelings to Bossuet and Joly over a drink before the other Amis arrive for the night. "…And I just don't know what to _do_. What does he _want_? Should I try to… to kiss _him_? But what if he doesn't like it, what if he gets angry or what if it scares him I mean he's never—"

Grantaire cuts himself off as Joly buries his face in his hands and Bossuet begins slowly, methodically banging his head against the table.

"Guys…" Grantaire can feel his face burning, and hopes that his natural complexion and the remnants of his deep summer tan will hide the blush. "Guys, this isn't funny."

"Maybe not for _you_." Joly's breathless chuckle erupts into a full-fledged laugh as he lowers his hands to look at Grantaire again. "But oh, Grantaire… the rest of us just spent _months_ watching Enjolras run around in circles trying to get the two of you together. And he said two weeks ago that things were going nicely—he seemed _happy_."

"But clearly it's going to take the patience of St. Monica, the headstrong determination of Heracles, and the strength of the gravitational attractive force—"

"The electrical force is stronger."

Joly's quiet murmur barely puts a pause in Bossuet's tirade. "And the innate strength of the attractive electrical force to get the two of you properly together. I just… what is the _problem_? He spent months chasing after you! You adore him and have for centuries! You finally told him that you adore him and he told you that you're worthy of being with him! _Why is there still a problem here?_ "

"Because I don't know what to do! Because I don't know what he wants and he's sending me mixed signals!" Grantaire blinks rapidly, ashamed to find that his face is still burning and that now tears are pricking at his eyes again. "I'm… I can't hurt him. I just _can't_. If I hurt him, I'll—"

"Grantaire." Joly's voice has abruptly lost all trace of amusement. "Don't say something all of us are going to feel badly about."

"More importantly, don't _think_ it." Bossuet straightens, reaching out to clap Grantaire on the back. "You're not going to do anything terrible to him. He _wants_ you. And the worst thing you could possibly offer him, Grantaire, is an uneven, destructive relationship. He wouldn't ever want you hurt, even if you _did_ accidentally hurt him."

"And none of the rest of us would, either." Joly reaches out to touch Grantaire's other shoulder. "Grantaire, this is supposed to be something _fun_. It's supposed to be something exciting and energizing and good for both of you."

"I know. I'm sorry." Grantaire leans forward, into their touch and reassurance because he still, after all these lifetimes, can't ever bare to pull himself away from it. Closing his eyes to keep the sheen of tears from being too obvious, he takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm again.

After a few breaths, he realizes that more than just being words to soothe their concerns, they're actually _true_. The panic that had propelled the awful need to deny himself in favor of Enjolras is old, centuries old, a need to prove himself worthy of the man who has always represented the best of everything to Grantaire. This new feeling, though, this sense of purpose and stability, this ability to say no, he would never really hurt himself… when did this come to be a part of him?

Now isn't the time to think of that, and he raises his eyes to his friends, smiling sheepishly. "Hell, guys, that was a dumb thing to say, and I don't mean it. I wouldn't do anything to myself. I wouldn't do that to _him_ … or to the rest of you… or to me. But I don't know what to do. I'm kind of… floundering right now. And I could use you guys' advice."

Silence descends, and Grantaire lowers his head, his eyes closing automatically. After long, long seconds Grantaire cracks one eye open, peering surreptitiously between Joly and Bossuet.

Joly shakes his head slightly, then raises the hand that isn't touching Grantaire and tilts it at a sixty degree angle. Rolling his eyes, Bossuet shakes his head in turn, then holds his free hand up and blows on it, raising an eyebrow. Joly hesitates, smiles, then nods and claps Grantaire on the back.

By this time Grantaire has opened both eyes and is staring blatantly between the two men, fascinated by their quick, silent communication.

Joly straightens in his chair, his hand going to his drink and playing with the rim. "Enjolras turns nineteen in five days."

"The Amis are throwing him a party on Saturday, since Combeferre and Courfeyrac are going to be out of town Friday evening." Bossuet settles back into a comfortable slouch.

"I know." Grantaire resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I wasn't _that_ drunk when we were planning it."

"You don't have to be drunk to forget something." A grin is slowly growing on Joly's face, and Grantaire's fairly certain he's going to be vibrating in his seat soon with excitement. "Saturday is the day _after_ his birthday, though, and I know he doesn't have anything political going on Friday and I'm fairly certain he doesn't have anything personal, so—"

"So ask him out on a birthday date." Bossuet also looks far too pleased with himself. "It's perfect, right? It'll show you've been paying attention, that you care about him; it'll keep him busy, since I know he's worried about us getting older."

A brief, thick silence encapsulates the table, and Grantaire knows they're all remembering the same thing—the same _things_ , the same times, bullets in the air and blood in their mouths and their loved one's names ringing in their ears which is so, so much better than the screams.

First nineteen, then twenty, then how many more years before things are bad enough that they have to fight again?

"Maybe we won't this time." Joly's hand has somehow ended up in Bossuet's, and his voice is a low, hoarse whisper. "Maybe things will go better. Maybe a few scars and some jail time's all we'll need to give."

"Maybe." Bossuet's thumb slides over Joly's fingers again and again, a soft caress. "Who knows? We can't predict the future, but we can enjoy the hell out of the present that we have. So ask your boyfriend out on a _date_ , for heaven's sake, all right?"

"A birthday date." Grantaire turns his glass slowly on the table, watching the ring of condensation slide around it. "You don't think… given _us_ … it would be awkward?"

Bossuet's head collides with the table again, though his muffled voice is perfectly audible. "Then choose a different day, but _ask him out_."

"We're not going to die anytime in the near future, Grantaire." Joly rubs Bossuet between his shoulder blades. "And it might be good, helping him make some pleasant memories for his birthday."

Bossuet lifts his head enough to grin at Grantaire. "If you play your cards right and plan ahead, possibly _very_ good memories of his birthday."

Grantaire downs his drink in one long gulp, throws his napkin at Bossuet's grin, and nods. "A birthday date it is, then."

***

The date goes terribly from start to finish.

All right, maybe not _right_ from the beginning. Asking Enjolras out goes perfectly well.

Well… it goes decently, at least.

Enjolras seems to appreciate the effort, anyway, though Grantaire's fairly certain he's said the same nine words in every permutation but the one that he wants by the time he sputters to a stop.

Enjolras' blond eyebrows are drawn together, the fine hair far paler than his well-tanned skin as he meets Grantaire's eyes. "Let me see. My keywords are Friday, me, you, dinner…" Enjolras' brows suddenly jump up a good centimeter, pleased surprise in his sharp blue eyes. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

Grantaire nods dumbly, not trusting himself to speak since "Will you come out to eat with me Friday?" had apparently been far too complicated a sentence.

"Friday… no Amis meeting, Combeferre and Courfeyrac won't be back, nothing with any other activist groups…" Enjolras smiles, a slow, almost shy curve of his lips. "I would love to go out with you, Grantaire. Just name the time and place."

"Six? I'll pick you up at your place?" He intends to make statements, but his voice squeaks up into a higher register both times, making them undeniably questions. "Dress nicely?"

"Of course." Enjolras grabs Grantaire's hand, the gesture still so intimately familiar and still inducing shivers every time. Enjolras leans forward, just slightly, and then pauses. After the briefest hesitation Enjolras throws both arms around Grantaire, pulling him into a tight, fierce embrace. When Enjolras speaks, it's in a low, clear whisper that causes all the hairs on Grantaire's arms to stand abruptly upright in eager anticipation. "I'll be looking forward to it."

And perhaps he is, but that doesn't mean that he looks comfortable when Grantaire picks him up.

He looks absolutely _stunning_ , of course. Grantaire has never seen the outfit that Enjolras is fidgeting uncomfortably in before. The undershirt is a dark red, not quite maroon—not quite the color of drying blood, though he pushes that thought, those _memories_ , away before they can get further—and hangs tantalizing on Enjolras' slim form. Dress slacks a deeper black than the darkest night and a matching suit jacket complete the ensemble, and Grantaire finds that he has to stop himself from staring appreciatively at Enjolras' shoulders and hips and flat stomach. The clothes emphasize both the rich, healthy dark tones in Enjolras' skin and throw his blond hair and fire-bright blue eyes into sharp relief, making it easier for Grantaire to wrench his eyes up to a more appropriate level.

"A suitable enough outfit?" Enjolras tugs once more on the cuffs of both jacket and shirt, his weight shifting from the ball of one foot to the other. "Or do I need a tie, too? I have one, if you want."

Grantaire swallows hard, trying not to dream about looping a tie around Enjolras' neck—or, better, removing it later, but that's _definitely_ a very premature dream. He suddenly feels far too plain and drab in his own suit. "No tie needed. Though if you want it, that's fine. You look amazing just as you are, though."

"I'm glad you approve." Enjolras' eyes drop to his shoes, and Grantaire wishes it weren't quite so dark already, that they weren't in the entryway to Enjolras' apartment building, so he could tell even through Enjolras' darker complexion if he were blushing. Then Enjolras raises his head again, and determination has replaced the hesitation. "Well, then, shall we go?"

Grantaire nods, leading the way back to his car, acutely aware of how shabby the old model looks next to Enjolras. Enjolras doesn't seem to mind, though, strapping himself into the passenger seat, expression still set. As though they were heading to a rally or something similar—something that would require his utmost dedication and passion.

It leaves Grantaire uncertain what to say, uncertain what to do, and they end up spending the entirety of the drive to the restaurant in a tense, uncomfortable silence. After the first five minutes Grantaire starts to avoid even glancing at Enjolras, not sure if Enjolras is more intimidating when he's approaching their date as though it were a battle or during those rare, frightening times when something like uncertainty touches the lines of his mouth and crinkles the skin between his eyes.

Is he regretting agreeing to the date?

Is he regretting chasing Grantaire?

Is he having second thoughts about this whole romance thing?

Grantaire consoles himself with the fact that he cleaned the car so that it doesn't have even a hint of fast-food smell left to it and the fact that he gets them to the restaurant on time, in one piece, without even a hint of flashing lights in the rear-view mirror.

Enjolras skitters out of the car as soon as it's stopped, and is there to offer a hand to help Grantaire up by the time Grantaire has fumbled the keys out of the ignition and opened the door. His arms wrap tight around Grantaire for a few brief, glorious seconds as Grantaire finds his balance, and his fingers remain clasped with Grantaire's once the embrace is done.

It gives Grantaire the confidence he needs to approach the restaurant door and inquire after their table, though the restaurant is probably more expensive than anywhere else that Grantaire has ever eaten. The atmosphere is nice, though, a romantic, lowly-lit environment. A live string quartet plays in one corner of the dining room—the opposite corner to their table, and Grantaire tries not to wonder if they're being hidden, sequestered off so that no one has to worry if the two well-dressed men are actually on a date.

Which they _are_ , and Grantaire stares across the flower-twined candle burning prettily in the center of the table to where Enjolras is perusing the menu as though his life depends on it.

Small talk.

He needs to come up with some kind of small-talk for them to partake in, but what is he possibly going to talk about with Enjolras that they don't already cover on a regular basis? He doubts Enjolras will react well to attempts at discussing the weather, unless they're discussing how much the snow that's expected by the end of next week will impact potential political actions or damage their posters.

Enjolras raises his head just a few centimeters, his eyes creeping up to study Grantaire's face, and then immediately drops his gaze again, studying the menu with an even deeper frown.

"So..." Grantaire thinks if Enjolras' jaw tenses any further that he'll be able to hear the man's beautiful, even teeth grinding together. "How are classes going?"

"Fine." Silence stretches after the monosyllabic answer, and Grantaire watches as Enjolras' shoulders hunch forward slightly. After what seems like a small eternity, Enjolras drops the menu and raises his gaze to meet Grantaire's again. "How are your classes going?"

"Busy." A part of him wants to simply drop his eyes and take his own turn hiding behind the menu. A larger part glories in the fact that Enjolras asked _him_ a question about his classes, and he determines that he's not going to let the conversation die off that quickly. "There are projects due in both my art classes next week, one on Monday, one on Friday, so I've been doing a lot of sketching and re-sketching and cursing myself for wanting to take actual art classes."

"Really?" Enjolras' head tilts just slightly to the right, a cat's quirk of curiosity. "But you're a great artist. I would think that would make the art classes easy."

"I'm an okay artist." Grantaire ducks his head, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks, hoping his brown skin and the low light will hide it. "Depending on the professor, they'll either love or hate my work. But that doesn't change the fact that sketching for myself or for you guys is different from having to draw whatever I'm assigned on a time-table. It makes it a bit less fun."

"Ah." A slight smile plays at the corners of Enjolras' mouth as picks up his water glass, pulling it closer to him. "The trials of doing what you love on someone else's time-table."

"Yeah, exactly."

Enjolras hesitates, eyes dropping and then flicking up to meet Grantaire's again. "Could I ask what you're drawing?"

The next few minutes actually pass in companionable conversation, but everything is broken again as soon as the waiter comes over and requests their orders. An uncomfortable silence once more descends between them, during which Enjolras fidgets almost constantly with the cuffs of his shirt and suit jacket.

Why is it so hard to talk with Enjolras?

He's had conversations with the man before. He's had conversations in _this life_ with the man, and everyone tends to talk a great deal during the Amis meetings.

Perhaps it's a sign. Perhaps it means that they're not meant to be alone together—not meant to date, not meant to have a relationship other than the one that their hands know far too well now, the clasp that comes right before the end.

"—show me some?" Enjolras' voice is quiet, just barely above a whisper.

Grantaire starts guiltily. What had Enjolras been asking him? How had he missed Enjolras trying to talk to him?

"Ah, it's fine." Enjolras forces a quick grin, fingers tight on the napkin beside his plate. "I didn't mean to pry. Actually, I think I'm—"

Grantaire suspects that Enjolras was going to say he was heading to the bathroom, but the end of his sentence is lost in the sound of breaking glass as Enjolras' hasty leap to his feet results in their waiter spilling the tray with their entrees all over Enjolras.

At least he was wearing a suit jacket. It's what makes the outfit salvageable, and Enjolras looks _incredibly_ good in just the undershirt and black slacks. Grantaire's not sure whether he or the waiter are apologizing more profusely as they help Enjolras clean up, though Enjolras remains almost preternaturally quiet, answering most of their questions with either a nod or a shake of his head that makes his loose blond hair swing gracefully.

The spill means their dinner is late, and that means they have to rush to finish the meal if they're going to make the second half of their date. Grantaire's mood has darkened by the time they finish, and he almost doesn't tip the waiter. Enjolras leaves two twenties folded neatly beside his plate when Grantaire refuses to let him see the bill, though, which only leaves Grantaire feeling even more stressed and depressed.

It's all right, though. So dinner didn't quite work out right. So Enjolras is shivering without his jacket—that just gives Grantaire an excuse to put his jacket around Enjolras, and all the shivering in the world is worth the slight smile that Enjolras gives him and the sight of Enjolras burrowing down into Grantaire's slightly-too-big for him jacket. Besides, dinner was only the first half of the surprise; they still have a show to go to, and that, certainly, will go well.

And the _show_ does go well, the actors all performing their parts admirably. It's everything that it was advertised as, a beautiful production in the original French of a play from the turn of the nineteenth century. It's a little slice of their past come to life, a tiny throw-back to who they were when they first met, when everything started.

It's also, as the play progresses, decidedly Royalist, decidedly sexist, decidedly crude in its humor, and decidedly _not_ something that Grantaire ever should have brought Enjolras to. He can practically hear the man fuming in the seat beside him, rebuttals to all the pretty poetry that's being flung about undoubtedly on the tip of his tongue, though Enjolras says nothing after the first quarter of the play, his lips merely set into a thin, tight line as he watches the performance.

Grantaire doesn't even bother trying to apologize on the ride home. What's he supposed to say? That he didn't do all the research properly? True, but hardly a valid excuse.

He parks on the curb outside Enjolras' apartment building, unlocks the car, and forces his heavy, listless tongue to move, because he can't let it end like this, not in silence and anger. "I'm sorry. It was—I didn't know. But I should have looked into it. I just... I'm sorry for ruining your jacket. I'm sorry for ruining your birthday. And I'm sorry for ruining our date. I'll understand if you... if that's the only time you want to go out."

Enjolras turns to look at him, expression startled as he peers over the collar of Grantaire's coat. "Is that... what you want?"

"It's what _you_ want." Grantaire allows his head to fall forward on the steering wheel, eyes closing as tired exhaustion washes over him. "And that's _fine_. I told you this was a bad idea when you suggested it, and this just... this just proves it. So we'll—"

"It's _not_ what I want." Enjolras' hand is a tight band of fire on Grantaire's arm, his voice a whip-crack of absolute authority. "If breaking up is what you want... all right. I've told you all along that if you're not interested in me romantically, tell me and I'll leave. But don't you dare try to tell me that I don't want this, because I _do_."

"But..." Grantaire's hands are balled into fists, his body shaking as he sits up and peers through blurry eyes at Enjolras. "Really?"

"Really. Really, really, _really_." It should sound utterly ridiculous, like a five-year-old's sing-song declaration. There's something about the way Enjolras' eyes blaze and the utter, utter _certainty_ in his voice that makes Grantaire shiver instead of laugh, though.

"Then why..." He really needs to start making complete sentences, to think of what he wants to say before he lets his mouth run wild. "Why haven't you acted like you're happy to be in a relationship with me, then?"

Enjolras frowns. "I don't know what you mean."

"Ever since we kissed that once, you've been... I mean, you're still... friendly. But you didn't ask me out on a date. You were chasing me around for weeks, and then you didn't ask me out once I agreed!" There's more aggrieved confusion in his voice—in his _heart—_ than Grantaire had thought there would be, and he bites his tongue, stopping any more words from coming.

Enjolras doesn't seem upset, though. If anything he seems chagrined, giving a slight wince and looking away before speaking in a low voice. "I'm sorry if that was confusing for you. I didn't mean... I wasn't sure exactly how to proceed, to be honest. I've never asked anyone out on a date. I've very little experience with being taken on a date."

"That's all right. It's not important. _Dating_ isn't important. But... you don't..." Grantaire can feel his cheeks burning, and he looks away, out the side window. "You keep acting like you're going to kiss me, and then you don't. You look... sad. Uncomfortable. And if that's what being in a relationship is going to mean for you... that's not what I want. I want you to be comfortable and happy and—"

"Wait." Enjolras' hand shifts to a gentle pressure on his shoulder, steady and unwavering until Grantaire turns to look at him. "Every time I've gone to kiss you, Grantaire, you've frozen up, this look of absolute terror on your face."

"Not terror." Grantaire gives his head a little shake, and then a half-chuckle works its way past his lips. "Well... maybe a little bit of fear, because I can't believe this is real. But more... excitement. Anticipation. I... I wanted it."

Enjolras draws a deep breath, and then lets it out in a long, slow sigh. "I am an idiot."

"No, you're not." Shaking his head, Grantaire offers Enjolras a half-smile. "Or if you are, I must have the mental capacity of a bacterium."

"No self-deprecation. Not right now. We both know you're just as intelligent as me." Enjolras' hand rises, caresses slowly along Grantaire's cheek. "I'm sorry, Grantaire, I truly am. I should have asked you. I should have clarified what we both were feeling, rather than jumping to conclusions. I swear, though, I would very much like to kiss you. Will you allow it?"

"Yes." The word is a prayer, everything he has wanted for lifetime after lifetime.

His breath still catches in his throat, his body still freezes in absolute overwhelming desire as Enjolras leans awkwardly toward him across the gear shift, but this time Enjolras doesn't stop. This time there isn't a hug or a squeeze of his hand or some other substitute for what he wants—what Enjolras swears he wants.

This time there is Enjolras' lips against his, warm, slightly chapped from the cold weather. Enjolras' hands are in his hair, pulling him close, and Enjolras' mouth presses tight against Grantaire's, as though to eliminate all space between them, as though to make up for lost time.

Grantaire returns the kiss with equal passion, his arms reaching out to pull Enjolras closer to him, silently cursing the confines of the car. Enjolras shivers when Grantaire's cold fingers press against the nape of his neck, but he only pulls closer, kneeling on the passenger seat and leaning across so that his upper body is draped against Grantaire.

Then Enjolras' tongue darts out, a brief, inquisitive touch against Grantaire's lips, and Grantaire finds himself laughing breathlessly as he pulls back to gasp in air.

Enjolras' hair is rumpled, a lion's mane about his face, and his lips gleam red in the soft anterior light. The very tip of Enjolras' tongue flicks out against his lips, as though tasting Grantaire. "Was that... not right?"

"No. That was everything I could ever have wanted it to be." Grantaire presses a hand to his own lips. "You really mean it. You really, really mean it."

"I tend not to say things I don't mean, or to expend energy on something that I don't actually want." Enjolras reaches across the space between them again, running his fingers feather-light across Grantaire's cheek.

"I know. I just... it's still weird." Grantaire's hand rises to cover Enjolras'. "It still feels like it's a dream, like I'll wake up and you'll be... back to how you always are."

"This isn't a change from how I usually am." Enjolras frowns, his fingers curling tighter on Grantaire's cheek, his nails pressing into Grantaire's skin possessively. "Or... I suppose it's... it's different, but it's not _that_ different. I've always been happy to spend time with my friends—with the Amis. I... don't know if I'll be able to approach a romance much differently, but I do want to try. I want _this_. I want _us_. I want _you_."

"Despite the fact that our first date was an absolute disaster."

"It wasn't a total disaster." Enjolras smiles, his fingers again stroking gently, enticingly down Grantaire's cheek. "And I wasn't in the best frame of mind when approaching it, I will admit. I'm... not usually happy about my birthday. I tend to be a bit... testier than I have a right to be."

Grantaire returns the gentle caress, trying not to shiver as he wonders if Enjolras will find it as agonizingly enchanting as he does. "But when I asked you out—"

Grantaire can _feel_ Enjolras' blush, a warming of Enjolras' cheek beneath his hand. "I forgot it was my birthday."

Raising one eyebrow, Grantaire continues his careful exploration of the planes of Enjolras' face, trying to memorize this moment and the feel of Enjolras' skin. "You forgot your birthday?"

"I've remembered what I am— _who_ I am—since I met Combeferre." Enjolras' tone is flat, his gaze direct and clear as he meets Grantaire's eyes, giving no clue to the sudden topic change. "I was six years old."

Grantaire freezes, his smile faltering and his hand coming to a halt as he tries to imagine what that must have been like. While he's had flashes of recollections all his life, it had been meeting Enjolras and the rest that allowed everything to gel into a cohesive whole. How could a child have dealt with the memories of blood and death, hope and terror?

How could a child have dealt with the knowledge of what will, almost certainly, happen to them in the not-so-distant future?

"I'm always in my twenties. More than that, I'm always somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-six when we die." Enjolras doesn't shiver. His voice doesn't crack. But there is something old and aching in his eyes as he continues to meet Grantaire's gaze without blinking. "Three to seven more years, Grantaire. That's what we probably have left. And I won't regret it—I've never regretted it—but I... I don't like my birthday. And I don't want to waste any of the time that I have."

"And... you're _certain_ this wouldn't be a waste?" Grantaire's voice is a quiet, needy whisper as he asks the question that he shouldn't need to ask again.

"No." Enjolras' hand covers his, presses Grantaire's fingers tight to Enjolras' face. "This would be wonderful."

"Then we'll keep doing it, for as long as you enjoy it. Because I love being with you. But I... I need you to let me know what you're feeling. I need to know that you're really _into_ this." Grantaire licks his lips. "I need you to be the leader, if you don't mind. Because that way I know that we're going where you want to go, at a pace that you're comfortable with."

Enjolras leans forward, obliterating the space between them, and presses another enthusiastic kiss to Grantaire's mouth. His voice, when he speaks, is low and husky. "If that's what you want, I can definitely agree to it. Provided you promise to tell me if we're ever going too quickly or anywhere that you're not comfortable with."

"I think I can handle that. Which I guess means that we'll give this a try." Grantaire's lips twist up into a tentative smile, hope and the first hot licks of desire tangling with a lingering wariness and making his chest feel too tight. "Even though we can't handle simply talking for an hour without long awkward silences."

"I was tense, and you... seemed to be trying to avoid certain topics." Enjolras gives a wry smile. " _Were_ you trying to avoid politics?"

This time it's Grantaire who blushes. "I was trying to make it romantic... to make it... special. Maybe that was a foolish idea."

"Making it special wasn't a foolish idea, but I think that attempt wasn't the best way to go about it." Enjolras smiles, turning his face to press a kiss to the palm of Grantaire's hand. "Politics are a large part of both our lives. Even more than that, though... we already know each other so well. We've known each other for well over a century. We've died beside each other."

"Yeah." A low chuckle works its way out of Grantaire's throat. "I suppose when you put it that way, trying to do any kind of normal date-type activities might be silly. So... what do we..."

Enjolras straightens, expression suddenly very grave. "Do you want to come upstairs with me?"

Grantaire forces himself to continue breathing. Enjolras probably has no idea what he might be implying with that question. There's no need to get overly excited—hell, he should just be excited that Enjolras wants him to go spend time with him and—

"I have condoms and lube." Enjolras doesn't flinch or blush or look embarrassed at all. "I was hoping that sometime tonight you would have sex with me."

All right, scratch that, Enjolras clearly _does_ know what he's implying. "That's what you want?"

Enjolras nods, very grave. "It's very much what I want."

"Well, then." Grantaire smiles, not sure if he's more giddy or nervous but certain that if Enjolras wants this he certainly isn't going to say no. "What are we waiting for?"

*** _  
_  


_Wait for me._

Grantaire perches nervously on the end of Enjolras' bed, the words echoing over and over in his head. He tries to distract himself by glancing around Enjolras' room, but there isn't much to provide a respite from his own thoughts. As fascinating as literature debating law and the advancement of human rights and utopian ideals can be, it doesn't hold any interest to him at all right now. He has vague recollections of seeing other books and oddities in the main room of the apartment, likely belonging to either Courfeyrac or Combeferre, but Enjolras told him to wait here, so here he will wait.

What could Enjolras be up to in the bathroom?

Grantaire's imagination can provide all sorts of possibilities, but he doesn't dare let it get out of control.

Or... well... maybe he should. Enjolras was the one who blatantly propositioned him, after all.

It still feels like a dream. It still feels like a beautiful, impossible dream that he's going to wake up from at any moment. Glancing toward the bathroom door to make sure it's still closed, he pinches surreptitiously at first one arm and then the other. He doesn't wake up, but that doesn't really mean anything. Perhaps this is just a really _good_ dream.

Then the door to the bathroom opens, and Grantaire _knows_ that this is a very good dream. One that he never, ever wants to wake up from.

Enjolras stands in the door to the bathroom, beautifully illuminated from the back by the bathroom light and from the front by the free-standing lamp that provides illumination for his bedroom. He's changed out of his dress clothes and into... well... into an outfit Grantaire would never have imagined Enjolras wearing. His shirt is sleeveless, a form-fitting matte black with a v-neck that dips down to between Enjolras' nipples. He isn't wearing any pants, and his underwear are also a tight black matte fabric with red ties that secure the fabric in place while also emphasizing Enjolras' package.

He looks like something from one of Grantaire's dreams, ready to leap atop him and fuck him senseless.

Then Grantaire's eyes rise, take in Enjolras' expression, and the erection that had started died. Enjolras stands easily, as though he displays himself for potential lovers every day, but his jaw in tense, his eyebrows drawn together, and it's clear that he's nervous.

"So?" Enjolras gives a brief, hesitant smile. "What do you think?"

"I think you look absolutely stunning. Like a dream come true." Grantaire stands, but he doesn't cross the few feet that separate him from Enjolras. "I also think you look scared as hell. I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to, Enjolras. If you're having second thoughts—"

"No." Enjolras flushes, the red mixing with the dark brown undertones of his skin to marvelous effect. "I just... thought maybe it was... a little much. But Courfeyrac said that you liked the sleeveless look, and—"

"Please tell me you didn't ask Courfeyrac about what to do." Grantaire covers his eyes with his right hand, though he shifts his fingers almost immediately so that he can peer at Enjolras with his left eye.

Enjolras' blush somehow manages to deepen. "I needed information. Combeferre always seemed... uncomfortable discussing this topic with me, so that left Courfeyrac and Prouvaire, and since Courfeyrac lives with me—"

"Okay. All right. He's a better source of information than the Internet, I suppose. At least most days. Though I wouldn't put it past him to actively troll us, he wouldn't hurt you. But..." Grantaire forces his feet to move, to bring him to Enjolras' side, though he still feels as though he doesn't have the right. "If this is about you and me, it's about what you're comfortable with—what you're comfortable _in—_ so wear whatever you want."

"I want to wear something that you'll like. That you'll find attractive." A shy smile crosses Enjolras' face, and Enjolras takes one of Grantaire's hands gently by the wrist, lifting it to cup Enjolras' face. "I want this to be amazing for both of us."

"I'm pretty sure I would find you attractive covered in s—... mud. In anything. You're gorgeous, body and mind and soul, and if this is really what you want, I'm the luckiest man on this whole forsaken planet."

"Not forsaken." Enjolras smiles as he speaks, pressing a kiss to Grantaire's hand again, his lips a caress to match the whispered words. "Not so long as all of us keep coming back."

"All right, then, the luckiest man on this lucky planet." Grantaire gathers his courage, leans in, and claims a brief, chaste kiss from Enjolras. "And you really do look damn hot in those clothes. Black and red are good colors for you."

"I know. I've figured that much out about fashion." There's a satisfied edge to Enjolras' smirk as he stalks slowly forward, guiding Grantaire back to the edge of the bed. "And I'm glad you like the outfit. Courfeyrac says you can take the underwear off with your teeth if you're dextrous enough."

Grantaire feels the back of his knees come up against the foot of the bed just as Enjolras' hands pull him to a stop. "I... would certainly be willing to try, if that's what you want."

"It is." Both Enjolras' hands move to Grantaire's chest, his touch burning like fire through Grantaire's dress shirt. "But first... I'd like to try some things on you. If that's acceptable."

"That is perfectly acceptable." Grantaire's words shake slightly, and he clears his throat. "Where you lead, I'm happy to follow."

Enjolras smiles again. "Then I will lead. But I'll be asking you a lot of questions. I want to know what you're all right with, what you're enjoying, to _hear_ that you're comfortable. Acceptable terms?"

"Perfectly acceptable." Grantaire nods.

Enjolras' hands give a gentle push at his chest. "Then get up on the bed, please, and let's get started."

Grantaire wastes no time scrambling up onto the bed, grateful he left his socks, shoes, and suit jacket just inside the entryway to Enjolras' apartment so he doesn't have to worry about dealing with them now. He doesn't take his eyes from Enjolras, who follows him up onto the bed with feline grace, eyes practically glowing a luminous, energetic blue in the lamplight.

When Grantaire is flat on his back, Enjolras settles himself on Grantaire's right side, his body pressed up tight against Grantaire's. Enjolras' fingers slide across Grantaire's stomach, coming to rest on the line of buttons that keeps his shirt closed. "Is it all right if I take your shirt off?"

"Yes." Grantaire breathes out the word, watching in stunned silence as Enjolras' right hand begins fumbling awkwardly with the buttons.

The awkwardness doesn't matter, though. It is _Enjolras_. Enjolras is here, next to him, _dressed_ for him, and every press of Enjolras' fingers through the fabric is pure delight and pure torture.

After what feels like an eternity, Enjolras has fumbled all the buttons loose. He sits up, using both hands to sweep the fabric off of Grantaire's chest and abdomen, his fingers sliding along Grantaire's ribs.

Enjolras studies Grantaire's body, and Grantaire has to consciously refrain from sucking in his gut. Let Enjolras see all that he's getting. If he then decides that he truly wants Grantaire—

"Can I touch your chest?" Enjolras' voice is a low purr, his eyes piercing through Grantaire, his head tilted just slightly so that his blond hair glints silver-white.

"Yes." Grantaire swallows, hard, erection starting again. And Enjolras has barely touched him. Trying not to embarrass himself is going to be difficult. "Anything you want."

"What I want is for you to keep telling me what's all right and what isn't, what you like and what you don't." Enjolras swings his right leg over Grantaire's body, straddling him effortlessly. "Does it feel good when I do this?"

Enjolras' fingers slide from Grantaire's chin down the nape of his neck and continue down the center of his chest to his belly button.

"Yes."

"This?" Both Enjolras' hands glide up from Grantaire's belly button to his nipples, pressing just over the tips.

" _Yes._ "

"This?" Enjolras leans forward, planting a slow, lingering kiss on Grantaire's mouth while his hands massage from Grantaire's neck down his arms.

"Very yes." Grantaire sighs, feeling tension drain from him. "Though you might put me to sleep if you do that much longer. It feels glorious."

"Good. I wanted you to relax a bit." Enjolras leans forward again, nuzzling at Grantaire's neck. His fingers stroke up and down Grantaire's side. "And this?"

"The neck's goo— _ah_." Grantaire gasps and bucks once as Enjolras begins applying suction to the sensitive skin just above his collarbone. "Neck _great_ , sides ticklish."

"Then I'll have to stop one of those." Enjolras' tongue lashes out kitten-light, and he shifts his hands to run along the top of Grantaire's pants while his mouth continues its ministrations.

"But definitely continue the other." Grantaire gives a shaky laugh, struggling not to squirm overly much. "Though... if you're going to keep your hands there... could you loosen my pants? A bit too tight right now."

"Yes." Enjolras slides down so that he's balanced below Grantaire's crotch and gently, infuriatingly gently, cups Grantaire's prick through the constricting fabric. "It looks like I must be doing something right."

" _Everything_ you do is right." Grantaire finds himself throwing his head back as Enjolras, still with that wonderful, _infuriating_ slowness and dedication to detail, begins unbuttoning and unzipping Grantaire's pants. "You're _perfect_ , and you are doing _this_ perfectly—"

"I'm hardly perfect." Enjolras' voice is a quiet, certain whisper as he inches Grantaire's pants down. "If I was perfect, I wouldn't need the rest of you, and I most certainly do. The eight of you... you complete me. You point out and help my correct the flaws in myself, in my arguments, in my _purpose_. I wouldn't be who I am without all of you, and I am very, very happy that I can share this, right now, with you."

Enjolras' hand slides across the tip of Grantaire's penis where it tents up Grantaire's boxers, and Grantaire whimpers.

"I'm also going to have to ask you to sit up for a few seconds, because I can't figure out how to get your clothes the rest of the way off with you prone like that." Enjolras raises his shoulders in a wry shrug. "Sorry."

Shaking his head, Grantaire sits up, trying to control his trembling—of want, of joy, of disbelief, still, though that is slowly fading—long enough to shimmy out of his clothing. His shirt comes off easily; his pants take a bit more of a balancing act, and he braces himself with one arm against the headboard of Enjolras' bed as his other hand shoves at the fabric, urging it down his legs.

Enjolras' fingers slide under the band of Grantaire's boxers and begin inching the fabric down Grantaire's legs. Enjolras' fingers caress gently against Grantaire's hips, against his thighs, against his legs, and Grantaire gives a little whimper and falls back on the bed as his prick springs free of its confinement.

The smile on Enjolras' face is far too satisfied as he finishes pulling Grantaire's pants and boxers off, flinging them off to the side before moving to again straddle Grantaire's thighs.

Enjolras' eyes scan over Grantaire's body, slowly, systematically, from the fall of Grantaire's undoubtedly disheveled black hair to his chin to his chest to his prick standing half at attention right in front of Enjolras' crotch. Enjolras' face is contemplative, giving away none of his thoughts.

"Enjolras..." Grantaire swallows hard but forces himself to continue. Enjolras wants them to talk about what they like, want, _need_ , and this is something he needs. "Will you tell me what you're thinking, when you look at me like that?"

For a handful of seconds Enjolras looks startled, blinking at Grantaire; then he relaxes, smiling, and settles down so that his body is nestled atop Grantaire's naked one. It's not a position they'll be able to hold for long, too much weight on Grantaire's chest, but for now the warmth and closeness of Enjolras' body makes breathing not much of a priority.

"I think I love the way you look." Enjolras' words are a whisper in Grantaire's ear, and his tongue laps twice at Grantaire's earlobe. "I love your hair, black as night and with a mind of its own."

Enjolras pulls back just slightly, shifting his weight off Grantaire's chest and onto Enjolras' left arm while his right hand traces around Grantaire's eyes. "I love your eyes. They remind me of our time in Japan... or Korea... but they're also distinctly _you_ , distinctly _this time_. Our past and our present and, maybe, a hint of our future in the way you look, if we can finally succeed in making people see each other as _human_ above all else."

Grantaire closes his eyes, biting back a sob. It shouldn't hurt to hear Enjolras talk so about him—about the way he looks, about the way his mixed heritage announces itself long before he can give anyone a name. It's been years since anyone openly mocked him for his slanted eyes or thick hair, years since prejudice was thrown openly in his face, but apparently the scars still haven't quite healed.

Grantaire shudders, _this_ life colliding with the impossible dream of _those_ lives that is somehow coming true as Enjolras continues his narrative.

"I love the way your mouth is so expressive. Even when I'm terrible at figuring out _what_ you're expressing, it's clear that you're _feeling_ , that you _care_." Enjolras' mouth molds itself against his, a kiss that isn't chaste but isn't demanding, either, a slow exploration of lips against lips, and Grantaire is panting by the time Enjolras pulls away. "And I love the way it feels against me. I have relived that kiss from last time so many times... and this isn't like that, but it's _good_ in the same way that the kiss was good last time. It's you and me, together, loving each other, and it is everything I have wanted since I found you, finally here at my fingertips."

Grantaire opens his eyes so that he can look up into Enjolras', into a bright blue that envelopes and claims but will never, ever drown him, Enjolras in all his glory.

"I love the way you respond to me." Enjolras levers himself into an upright position, a slight, awkward break in his narrative and caresses during which Grantaire finds his hands rising to grip Enjolras' hips possessively.

He is Enjolras'; Enjolras is his. It is impossible, but it is true.

Enjolras' focus is on Grantaire's chest, now, on the expansion and contraction of his ribs and the hard, tight knots of Grantaire's nipples. Both Enjolras' hands rove softly over Grantaire's skin. "I love the way you breathe a bit faster when you're looking at me; I love the way all I have to do is talk to you or give you the faintest caress and you leap as though you've been touched by fire."

"Maybe because I have been." Grantaire smiles, tightening his hold on Enjolras' hips.

"Maybe." Enjolras slides further down Grantaire's legs, away from Grantaire's grasping hands. For a moment Grantaire's hands are cold; then Enjolras' fingers slide between his, grip tightly, and he returns the pressure with equal fierceness. "I love this body because it's _yours_ , and you're offering it to _me_ , to _share_ this with me, and if it's all right with you, I would like to suck you off now."

Grantaire blinks, completely caught off guard, and then explodes in peals of laughter, a sound that's half-mirth, half-hysteria as a shiver runs down him.

Enjolras frowns up at him, clearly nonplussed.

Grantaire forces himself to stop laughing. "I'm sorry... it was just so _formal_ and so nice and then... who told you to ask like that?"

"Courfeyrac." A smile twitches at the corners of Enjolras' mouth now. "I admit, it did sound a bit... off. But terminology aside, it's a question I'd like you to answer."

"Yes." Grantaire sobers, sitting up enough to touch Enjolras' cheek. "If you're comfortable with it... yes, please."

Enjolras nods, dropping his head, and Grantaire allows himself to fall back onto the bed, his eyes closing.

They open almost immediately as Enjolras' mouth closes tentatively around Grantaire's penis. Enjolras' tongue slides softly over the slit once, twice, and Grantaire finds himself arching up into the contact, his fingers latching onto the sheets.

It doesn't take long for him to come to full hardness. Enjolras' hands on his balls and Enjolras' mouth on his prick, no matter how tentative and hesitant, no matter how uncoordinated the suction he applies, are something Grantaire would never have imagined could happen.

But it is happening.

Enjolras chose him.

Enjolras is _happy_ with him, is electing to do _this_ with him.

Grantaire whimpers, arching harder, and Enjolras' teeth slide along his prick. " _Gah_ , gentle!" Grantaire gasps out the request. "No teeth. Not yet. Not this time. I—"

Enjolras' tongue again slides over the slit at the tip of Grantaire's penis, and his hands are doing _amazing_ things with Grantaire's testicles, with the tender skin of Grantaire's inner thigh, and—

He'd meant to give Enjolras some warning, to let him pull away if he wanted to, but Grantaire's orgasm comes hard and fast, and all he can do is sob out his pleasure in a stream of names that all belong to the man kneeling between his legs.

When he can focus again, he sees Enjolras sitting between his legs still, an odd look on his face as he wipes at his lips.

"Are you..." Grantaire has to take a few deep breaths before he can continue, though concern cuts the edge off his euphoria. "Everything all right?"

"Yes." Enjolras smiles, and any unease Grantaire was feeling ebbs away at the self-satisfied expression. "I just... well, it wasn't quite the taste Combeferre and Courfeyrac had led me to expect. I made a bit of a mess spitting it out on the floor, but we can deal with that later."

Grantaire considers and then discards the idea of asking _what_ the other men had led Enjolras to expect so far as taste went. He probably doesn't want to know, anyway. "So... I take it from the way that smile looks... it wasn't too terrible?"

"No. I quite enjoyed that." Enjolras' smile grows, becoming a wolfish, almost predatory grin. "And I think I'll enjoy your reciprocation just as much. Assuming you don't mind."

Grantaire can feel a grin of his own pulling at his mouth as he sits up, urging shaky muscles into full function again. "Enjolras, I would be absolutely delighted to."

***

Grantaire undresses him first. He makes a valiant attempt to undo Enjolras' underwear with his teeth, but the red strings prove too obdurate for him, and after the second time they both break down in helpless giggles Grantaire gives up and simply unlaces them with his fingers.

It feels strange to be touched so much and so intimately.

Enjolras is used to being close with the Amis. It's something that's become more and more common with each life they go through, and has been especially true during this life. He's spent nights curled up with almost all of them, but never like this. Never unclothed, the slightly chill air a reminder that winter is coming swiftly outside. Never with another's fingers direct against the skin of his stomach, of his thighs.

Never with this purpose.

Never with another leading.

He is happy to be the leader of their small group. He is happy to be the one to initiate contact—has no problem doing so, not during this life. But there is something... heady about this, about offering up control, about Grantaire having more skill than he, and—

He whimpers, arching as Grantaire's tongue slides along the length of his shaft. His penis twitches slightly but stays relatively flaccid.

Grantaire doesn't seem to mind, though. One hand begins gently stroking over Enjolras' testicles, giving the occasional squeeze, while his other explores Enjolras' chest, up to his neck, down to his—

Oh.

Is it supposed to feel like that? Is there supposed to be a spot mid-abdomen where the heat gathers, where the press of Grantaire's hand on his skin there and the press of Grantaire's hand on his balls seems to form one bright, raging line of pleasure?

"If it's there, then yes." Grantaire plants a kiss to Enjolras' midsection, right along that line of heat, his hands continuing their ministrations. "Every body's different. Just tell me what you like, just like I told you..."

He tries.

He's not sure he's always very good at it. Sometimes he gets lost in the sensations, strange and beautiful and utterly new, and words dissolve into sounds or slide by his lips without his conscious knowledge.

Grantaire is attentive, though, utterly devoted to every twitch and shift that Enjolras makes. When Enjolras starts to get overwhelmed, he slows his pace, offers a few quietly murmured phrases or a gentle kiss, until Enjolras is ready to proceed again.

When Grantaire finally slides Enjolras' prick deep into his mouth, Enjolras can only gasp and bury both his hands in Grantaire's hair, trusting to his lover and letting his thoughts slide apart as wave after wave of building pleasure crescendos through him.

He had been worried, a bit, that he wouldn't be able to get hard, that he wouldn't be able to orgasm, that his centuries of either having no interest in or refusing to be distracted by sex would make this an exercise in futility.

He is pleasantly surprised to find himself wrong.

Whatever else he may be, at least in this body, he is quite capable of enjoying sex with a man he trusts.

Quite capable of enjoying it, and quite capable of _wanting_ it, of panting and arching and begging for Grantaire to continue, please continue. So many nights he's spent debating the merits of physical intimacy with Courfeyrac, with Prouvaire, even with Combeferre, but the conclusion they finally arrived at is a sound one.

There is nothing inherently more distracting about a physical relationship than about a non-physical one. He has always loved these men. He has never begrudged Courfeyrac his fascination with dancing and festivities, never begrudged Combeferre his fascination with all scientific progress, never begrudged Joly and Bossuet their interest in theatre. He has never begrudged Grantaire his art.

He has never begrudged his friends the time they need with him to keep their friendship alive, vibrant, passionate, the time that they take to try to show him the reasons for their diversions.

Why should he begrudge himself—begrudge Grantaire—if at least some of their time together is spent in physical passion?

It does not change who he is, fundamentally.

It just expands his options a bit more.

"Enjolras?" A quiet repetition of his name, and he has stopped responding to Grantaire, lost in the flow of pleasure through his body and thoughts through his mind.

"I love you, Grantaire." He wraps his fingers even tighter in Grantaire's hair. "I love you and I have been loving this and—"

There is no verbal response, because Grantaire's mouth is otherwise occupied, applying suction and pressure and touches in a way that Enjolras will have to learn and—

His orgasm washes away any conscious thought, and Enjolras simply allows himself to sink back into the mattress, satisfied and happy.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire's voice is tentative, his hand gentle as he brushes strands of hair away from Enjolras' eyes. "Are you... was that..."

"Wonderful." Enjolras smiles at Grantaire—at his lover, his friend, the man who is finally living up to his potential and giving them both what they want. "That was wonderful. Thank you."

Grantaire laughs, a breathless chuckle of awed joy. "I'm not sure I should be thanked for taking your virginity. I mean, I'm assuming—"

"I am. Was." Enjolras tugs on Grantaire's arm until he settles down next to Enjolras. "But that was lovely. There was nothing I would change."

"Nothing?" The fingers of Grantaire's left hand bury themselves in Enjolras' hair, his lips moving closer to Enjolras'. "Not even when I slipped and gut-punched you?"

"Nothing." Enjolras smiles, leaning in for the kiss that Grantaire clearly wants. "Even the mistakes were _us_ , and you were so attentive that I wouldn't change a single one."

"Us." Grantaire's hand clenches in Enjolras' hair, pulling Enjolras to him and into a deeper kiss. "You and me. Together."

"You and me, together for the rest of eternity." Enjolras places a gentle kiss to Grantaire's nose before sitting up. "I hate to break the mood, but would you like to get cleaned up? And rinse your mouth out. We both taste kind of funny now."

Grantaire's smile fades slightly, but he nods and sits up as well. "Do you want to get showered and changed first, or..."

"I was thinking that we could get showered together." Enjolras trails his fingers over Grantaire's shoulder. "And that, if you don't mind... you could stay the night."

Grantaire's smile is so wide and grateful that it looks almost painful. "Really?"

Enjolras nods.

"But..." Grantaire hesitates. "I mean... we've only been dating for, like, two weeks. We've had one really terrible date and that's about it, and—"

"We've died hand in hand eight times." Enjolras takes Grantaire's hand in his, trying to find the words to express what he feels. "I _know_ you, Grantaire. I've watched you grow and change over the centuries. I _remember_ all that you've been to me... all that I've been to you. I don't need dates or pleasant conversation or to wait for us to both get what we want. I don't want to waste a single second of the time we've got left in this life."

For long seconds Grantaire is silent. Then he pulls Enjolras into a fierce kiss, his tongue sliding between Enjolras' teeth, exploring Enjolras' mouth. When finally he pulls away, they're both panting again, and Enjolras smiles to see determination burning in Grantaire's gaze as it meets his. "I don't want to lose a single moment, either."

They don't say anything else. Grantaire follows Enjolras as Enjolras collects clothes for both of them and heads into the bathroom, their fingers linked together so tightly that not even death could separate them.

***

"Thank you."

Grantaire starts out of a half-doze at the quiet whisper.

"For staying the night." Enjolras clarifies. "I... don't like to be alone on my birthday, though I'm usually not the best company."

"You've been fine company. The best company I could have wanted." Grantaire runs his fingers through Enjolras' lion-mane of blond hair, almost luminous in the near-darkness of the bedroom. "Though..."

He hesitates, not wanting to make things awkward, to ruin the quiet ambiance of camaraderie that has been slowing building between them as they showered, dressed, and cleaned off the bed.

"What is it?" Enjolras shifts slightly, his body pressing itself even more tightly to Grantaire.

It still surprises Grantaire, somehow, that Enjolras is so openly affectionate and physical, both with him and the other Amis, at least when they're not in public. He supposes, after some consideration, that it shouldn't. This is a different time, a different age, and as Enjolras said, they have had eight lifetimes to get to know each other well. What is a hug compared to standing by one another and dying?

A moment of comfort, that's what, a moment of love, a moment of protest against the unfairness of the world, and perhaps it is more fitting than he first thought that Enjolras should touch them all so eagerly.

"Grantaire?"

Grantaire gives a little start, corralling his thoughts back to what he had originally intended to say. "I... wish you wouldn't be afraid of your birthday. Hate your birthday. Whatever it is. It's not your fault that we die. It has nothing to do with your age."

"It's not really hate or fear." Enjolras somehow manages to press himself tighter to Grantaire. "It's... ah, it's complicated."

"Could you try to explain?" Grantaire wraps his arm more tightly around Enjolras, pressing a kiss to Enjolras' forehead. "If it wouldn't be too painful or... well... if you wouldn't mind."

"I could try." Enjolras is silent for so long that Grantaire fears he isn't going to speak again. Then his voice once more cuts through the dark of night, clear and passionate. "I don't regret that we die. I suppose I should start with that. I don't regret a single one of the choices we made. We always die fighting for what's just—fighting for a necessary cause, when other options have proved futile."

"Yes." Grantaire gives the whispered affirmative, trying not to flinch as he hears a half-dozen gunshots in his mind. "We always make our own choices, and we always choose to die for the same cause you die for."

"Yes. So it's not my fault—there _is_ no fault, no wrong. And I won't cheapen the sacrifice that you and the others have made by blaming myself or wishing we could have done things differently. We do the best we can with the information we have every single time. But..." Enjolras' voice cracks, just the tiniest break. "But I still watch you all die, time after time. I'm always the last one standing—you and me. And I wonder, now, every time we have to take up arms, when we're going to die. Not if, when. Though I want us to succeed, want us to live, _believe_ that one day we will live free in a free and just world... will do everything I can to make that time _now_ , _today_ , not some distant magical land and place... I wonder _when_. And I remember all the times that have gone before."

"Ah, Enjolras." Grantaire can't think of anything to say, so instead he wraps his arms around this man who embodies everything he has ever loved about humanity and holds him.

"I don't hate my birthday. I don't feel guilty about what's happened in the past." Enjolras is crying, silent tears that soak into Grantaire's borrowed T-shirt. "But I do wonder _when_ , and I take this one day, this day that means we're one year closer to almost-certain death, and I mourn for all that we've sacrificed over the years. All the lives we could have had, all the change we could have made if the world were just a bit different. If we could buy freedom in something other than our blood."

"We do. _You_ do." Grantaire finds himself clutching Enjolras so tightly his fingers are losing circulation, a burst of panic running through him. "You make such a difference with your words—you spread information, you teach people, you help others become the best people that they can be."

"I know." Enjolras nuzzles into his neck, returning the bone-crushing embrace with equal intensity. "I _know_ , and I _don't_ regret a single thing we do. And I'm glad, now, to have this. To have you and these memories rather than just allowing myself to indulge in grief on my birthday. To have this to carry forward into other lives."

"Not for a long time." The words are a hot promise, full of a desperate certainty. "We learn more every time. We're going to win this time. We're going to _live_."

"We're going to try. Just like we've tried every other time. We always try to live." Enjolras slowly relaxes his grip, though he stays tight up against Grantaire. "And we _will_ live one day. One day we'll be needed as much after the revolution as we are before, and we'll live, and we'll learn, and it will be beautiful. But if this isn't that time..."

"If this isn't that time, we'll still find each other." Grantaire finishes the thought in a whisper, sniffling, forcing the tears to stop. "We'll always, always find each other."

"We'll change the world together." The promise is a burning whisper against Grantaire's neck. "You, me, the others, we'll change the world together."

"I'll try." Grantaire closes his eyes again, relishing the feel of Enjolras' body against his, the certainty and faith in Enjolras' words. "I'll try, and if you think I can..."

"I know you can. You've proven that you can. We've died together; now, for a little bit, at least, we'll get to live together." There is peace in Enjolras' words again, and a slight slur that betrays his exhaustion. "We'll fly together, you and me, the phoenix and the dragon, until the world learns how to fly, too."

"Yes." The affirmation is quiet but heartfelt, and Grantaire allows his own eyes to close, drifting off to the comforting sound of Enjolras' steady breathing whispering promises of a thousand futures in his ear.


End file.
